


The Way Blood Falls

by orphan_account



Series: Our Hands Tainted by Blood and Painted in Gold [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Genre Twist, Brutal Murder, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dark Character, Dead Joffrey Baratheon, F/M, Murder, Partners in Crime, Twisted, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Weird Plot Shit, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 11:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She killed him...it made her heart flutter with a twisted joy.Their roles were now reversed. Sansa no longer kissed his shoes, no, it was now him; laying there cold in the mud worshipping at her feet.All Petyr could do was smile, proud of his little pianist. Grinning when he heard the gun go off.His chest warm as they both stared at the young Lion's blood.





	The Way Blood Falls

**Author's Note:**

> little pianist ;7 ( ~you know you're immature when you laugh `\\_( `v`)_/` ~)
> 
> *Cough*sarcasm*cough*

It was the way the blood dripped artistically. How it pooled beautifully close to the worn shoes. A twisted, sad, nauseating smile slowly forging from relief and fear.  
A look from afar and she would've seemed like a lunatic, a murderer—but she wasn't.

It was justice…was it not?

Sansa shivered, the peacemaker falling to the cold bloody ground with a hard thud. Each step she took, the noise of her mind breaking became more apparent, the shattering of her sanity ringing true in her ears. The body laid there, lifeless and pale, too close for her crumbling comfort.  
Dirty fingers curled tightly into the borrowed harvey plaid knickers, knees pulled to her chest as she took in a cold harsh breath. Blue glassy eyes staring at the red splattered puddle below, the once blond hair now matted with blood and mud. It was sickening, yet so delightful—a fervor making her heart skip beats. The annoying little brat was dead, now roles reversed as his vital fluid kissed at her shoes.  
Suppressed delirious laughs leaving her tear wet lips, the laughter scattered as her mind clashed with reason. To her the timing was perfect, deemed right, and he stood right there mocking her. The revolver screaming to be pulled from the hidden depths of her used pant pocket. His revolver.

It was a gift to her, it's purpose only for defense—A word that kept being tossed around in her head. For your safety.

She let her dirty palms make a searing contact with her face, whispering stupid over and over under her cold breath; the rush of fear and logic hitting her disgusting thoughts. Tears flowing hot as they burned her face, the salty drops washing away little of the dried blood.  
Glassy eyes turned to the sound of a car door, startled and afraid she was caught; until the familiar scent of mint and cigars that she knew all to well took over her senses. The soft gentle touch of his warm hands running over her shoulders and pulling her to him. The delicate cool breath whisking by her ears.

Reality hit, what she did became all too real once he arrived.

"Sansa, what have you done?" There was an unsettling calmness to his words, the only startled emotion seeming to come from the shock of her actions.

Petyr Baelish—the man who shit gold and wore silver like a diadem. The man who helped take care of her family with the little bargain they made, for she was his employee. He took care of his employees.

But was she now considered a bad investment? A waste of his time—money—?

His hands wrapped around her as if a bird wrapping it's wings around a pup. She had no words to speak. Couldn't find the right thing to say, mind fumbling, searching for an answer. Yet, she didn't have one.

It was pure impulse—hatred and anger. That was the truth, her reason.  
  
Her body melded to his, the ruffling of there clothes the only comforting noise beside the rain.

"I…" Sansa started, afraid of admitting the truth. Admitting she wasn't the mask that he helped her wear so proudly. It all chipped away when the blond stood like a painted target in front of her. Mocking and spitting, tossing mud at the clothes only boys wear, pulling the collar of her shirt so tightly she thought she was going to be the dead one. "I don't know...the gun was there, Alayne slipped away from me. I…I couldn't help it. Couldn't stop my emotions." The words left hurried and full of sad laughter, his hold got tighter. More protective.

"Shh, it's alright sweetling." He murmured from behind, the aroma of mint ever present as her senses seemed heightened. His touch soothing her as she leaned in, but he didn't have to lie. He could just leave her to do her own.  
"Petyr, you shouldn't…you can't be here. I'm a waste of your time. Look…just leave the gun, you won't see me again I—" promise, that's what she was going to say—should've said—. Of course, he wouldn't let her. Between them, they kept promises; that was one he could not agree to. He wouldn't agree to.  
"Sweetling, come on. Move away from the body, Sansa." He tugged gently at her waist, inching them both towards the car.

The smell of blood reeked, as he lightly pulled her away, it was there. Growing stronger. Made her stomach twist, wanting to puke every time she looked and saw the pale lifeless body. Sansa's own body became stone just looking at it, unmoving and glued to the earth.

What had she done? Every one she knew was now in danger…because of her. Even Petyr got caught up in this mess, as he couldn't seem to just leave her alone.

He brushed a knuckle over her tear stained cheek, his face expressionless, but his eyes showing a different color as she now faced him. The way worry settled over, how his hands rubbed anxiously at her shoulders, the hesitant face of trying to process a plan as he looked at her.  
When his gaze settled on the corpse, she held him by the sleeve. Reached to feel that warmth. In response he smiled, it was sad and gentle. It was pity. Sansa didn't want that, but she brushed it off, let his hands move to her face and cup her dirty cheek. He breathed her in, just as she did the same. Holding her as they watched the boy twitch—as the bird and the wolf became predator and the lion became prey—.

She should be used to murder, Sansa had witnessed far too much of it not to be ok with the idea. Her parents, her brother, and even her aunt. Even though, the "unfortunate" death of her aunt was a crime made by two. Petyr had been holding the gun that time, and she lied for him.

Would he lie for her? A girl who now lives on the streets of old London, selling her musical talent at speakeasies and wearing the hand me downs of her brother's clothes.

Was she worth the spent money? His money?

Her mind ran like a steam train, and he read her fears. He was a man of power, a man only vulnerable for her. Couldn't she see?

He picked up the revolver as he reeled them off the ground; leaning towards her with open arms after placing it in the rear of his pants. Petyr embraced her, knowing she needed something to get rid of the growing guilt and fear. He probably felt the same when he first killed a man. Maybe he didn't. Maybe she shouldn't either.

"Come on sweetling, leave him to be found by the hounds." He breathed softly, tilting her face up to his. "Leave him sweetling, leave your hate here with him. You'll want this field to reek of it, you'll want the Lioness to know that he was despised." He said, words low and delicate on her ears. His serene hands like a warm cloth to ones feverish head as placed them in her's. He lead her carefully to the car, not minding the mud on her pants, not caring for the blood on her shoes.  
The car started and they drove away, far into town, back to the bar. Clean and innocent—masked and smiling.  
  
Walking in, she was now Alayne, Littlefinger's pianist.

After that night, his eyes never left her. Always roaming her with a dark satisfied look.  
She knew what he had done, Sansa's first kill was planned.

He had to know if she was ready to color her hands with red and paint them gold.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I really had fun writing the beginning, but then my brain started malfunctioning towards the end. Anyways! I hope to write more for this little series, maybe even a short 3 or 4(maybe more) chapter story.
> 
> I hope you mates all enjoyed, farewell for now!


End file.
